


I Fucking Care

by LalliMachina



Category: Gravity Falls, Rick and Morty
Genre: Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Introspection, M/M, Young Grunkle Stan, blackbear, introspective, really don't know what else to write here uhh, set in the 70's so they're like 20 somethings, young rick sanchez
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-06-01 13:08:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6521005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LalliMachina/pseuds/LalliMachina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's 4AM. Rick isn't home.</p><p>(based off the acoustic version of idfc by blackbear)</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Fucking Care

**Author's Note:**

> just a short explanation on this AU: after Stan got kicked out, Rick let him crash in his place for a few days but Stan just never really left. the mature rating is for implied sex and alcohol/drug consumption. also this is introspective as fuuuuuuuuck and based on [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NR7-n-D2HhA&nohtml5=False)

It's 4AM. The room _is_ a mess, but what did you expect? Pieces of dirty clothing are spread all over the place, in a corner more than a few empty bottles sit pathetically and there may or may not be a couple of used condoms somewhere on the floor. Not that you'd be able to see any of that, the room is pitch-dark except for a thin thread of light that enters the room through the gap formed by the thrift shop curtains, it illuminates Stan's lips. They're pursed into a frown.

He's been in bed since 2AM and he's spent those two hours with his eyes glued to the ceiling, only closing them when he had to blink. It's 4AM and Rick isn't home. Big fucking deal –––– he shouldn't care, actually he doesn't care, that isn't the reason why he's still awake. It's just because he took a long nap on the afternoon, it has nothing to do with Rick. Nothing at all. 

Stan turns his body, now resting on his side, the frown on his face is relentless. It's not as if it's anything unusual, Rick goes out practically every night, he gets smashed practically every night and he sleeps with at least three people practically every night; the only difference is that Stan is with him most of the times. He's not saying is healthy, it's just Rick's thing, it's what he does.

In fact, it's probably what he's doing right now. He probably went to one of his weird intrerdemensional punk bars, got thirty different shades of high on stuff even crackheads would say no to, danced his ass off and looked gorgeous while doing it –––– wait, _what?_ –––– which some old guy noticed and decided to take him home, and Rick's too wrecked to say no so now he's sucking that idiot off and–––––

_What the hell, Stanley?_

What even was _that_? Stan sits up, grunting as he rubs his eyes. Alright, he needs a beer. 

With sluggish steps he makes his way to the kitchen, though he's not completely sure it can still be considered a kitchen. Much like Stan's room, it's a mess; a different type of mess though, more like a... Sciencey mess. It's where Rick keeps his stuff, there's all sorts of crap Stan doesn't get there but it's... It's nice, in a way it kind of reminds him of Stanford and _his_ science books and stuff.

The frown turns into a softer expression, but if anything bitterness was replaced by sadness. A sigh escapes his lips, great, an intrusive jealous daydream and now painful nostalgia. Boy, his brain is on a roll tonight. He opens the fridge and cracks a smile when he realizes that there's nothing there besides beer and some strange glowing rock-thing Stan's smart enough not to touch. The two of them have been living off pizza for far too long, that's unlikely to change though.

He grabs a can and heads for the couch, if he's not going to get any sleep he might as well turn on the TV. Stan takes a big gulp, practically downing half of the damn thing, as his hand reaches mechanically for the remote. A rerun of some 50s show is on, he doesn't bother to change the channel nor does he bother to pay any attention to it. 

Five minutes into brainless entertainment and Stan's mind starts to wander off. Unimportant things, incoherent set of words, Rick, memories he thought he had forgotten, Rick, stuff he needs to get done, Rick, Rick getting fucked by some jerk who's going to throw him out like a stray cat when he's done and the worst thing is that if we're going to be honest Rick isn't doing it just because he's drunk, he's doing it because he wants to and Stan only twisting hypothetical facts to make his mind believe that Rick feels anything towards him besides indifference and _here we go again._

He shakes his head and takes another sip from the can with a grunt. It's not like he even has a reason to be jealous. Sure, they screw around sometimes –––– more often than sometimes actually –––– and maybe Rick is the only person Stan has in his life right now he can talk to but that's it, that's exactly where their relationship ends. They fuck and if they're drunk enough they might spill a thing or two about how horrible they really feel. Nothing more. It hasn't been said out loud but there is a silent agreement, one that says neither of them will get too attached. Caring about who the other sleeps with is getting too attached. He knows they both are bad at the whole relationships deal and even though he didn't get the specifics he knows Rick is not ready for one of those just yet.

Who's Stan kidding? Even if Rick were looking for something more, why the hell would he pick him? The guy's a genius, he could probably find a cure to every disease known to men and more if he cared enough, he could literally have anyone in the universe. And while that's going on, Stan's no one, a failure, unwanted even by his own family, hell, he's the definition of _disappointment_ –––– as stupid as they come and still happy to destroy his remaining braincells.

He'll never be good enough for Rick.

A blaring bang on the door followed by a series of short but equally as loud knocks interrupt his self-loathing session.

“H-hey Pines––––” Speak of the devil, or think of him, same difference. His voice sounds hoarse, dry and drunk, you know, as usual. “Open t-this goddam–––– open this fucking door.”

Stan turns off the TV with a smirk on his lips, and maybe there's some relief in the breath he lets out. Maybe. He places the half-empty can of beer on the coffee table and heads for the door.

As soon as he opens it a body collapses on him, and they're lucky it's a very skinny body or else they'd both be lying on the floor right now.

“Lost my, my keys, Stanley.” His arms are thrown over Stan's shoulders, whose hands lightly hold him by his waist. He smells like booze, weed and sex.

“Couldn't you have just, I don't know, used your portal thing or something?” No, he didn't mind getting the door at all, but he sure as hell isn't going to let Rick know that. It's all part of an elaborate mind game in which Stan pretends he doesn't care about Rick, it'll be over when he convinces himself that that is true.

“Yeah, I lost that too, staying on Earth was a _bad_ idea,” that is followed by a grunt and Rick's apparent renunciation of trying to stand up, causing Stan to have to wrap his arms around his torso so he doesn't fall to the floor. “'ll 'ave to, to make a new one, i-it's gonna be a lot of work but I 'ave a few s-spare parts in the kitchen and––––”

After that the words coming out of his mouth become incomprehensible mumbled gibberish, a light smile finds its way to Stan's lips and it stays there until he realizes that the guy's actually beginning to fall asleep on his arms.

“Hey, hey, Rick,” he shakes him and after a few tries Rick finally grunts again, apparently regaining some of his balance. 

“ _Pines..._ ” 

Stan feels Rick's hands moving to the back of his neck, the tips of his fingers leisurely caressing the skin, making the short hairs there stand on end. A soft sound leaves Stan's throat as Rick's lips find their way to his neck, jawline, mouth –––– he gives in for a second or maybe two before he pushes him away. Even if it doesn't look like it Stan Pines has a moral code, and that includes not sleeping with drunk people unless he's also drunk.

“You're too out of it for this, Sanchez,” he chuckles, a smirk on his face as he watches Rick's expression turn into the usual half-annoyed half-indifferent frown. 

“Fuck you, Stanley.” The words are spoken in a completely neutral tone, but Stan sees a glimpse of disappointment in his eyes as he lets go of him.

“Go take a shower, you smell like crap.”

“Don't you wanna tag along?” He begins to wobble in the direction of the bathroom, legs shaky. “Y-y-you know, I'm pretty _OUT OF IT_ , I might end slipping, hitting my head, _dying_.”

“I'll take my chances,” he chuckles again, he'll try to keep an ear out for any loud banging noises coming from the bathroom. Showers with Rick never end up being just showers.

“Whatever, night, Pines.”

Rick disappears behind the door as Stan is about to reply, leaving him with his mouth half-opened for a moment before it forms a smile.

* * *

It's 4AM. There's a trail of clothes starting by the door and ending at the living room's couch. They're both drunk this time, drunk and possibly high on whatever was on those pills Rick found hell knows where. Stan doesn't recognize the song playing in the background, muffled by the panting coming from their lungs, but with Rick on top of him that's the last thing on his mind.

The way strands of his platinum colored hair fall over his half-lidded eyes, the way his naked chest moves with each breath. Maybe it's the combination of being pathetically intoxicated and having just had the best sex of his life, maybe he's just using that as an excuse, but to Stan he looks beautiful. 

He looks like someone Stan could fall in love with.

That thought alone would usually be enough to give him a heart attack, to make him shove all the good memories he had of Rick to the back of his mind because he knows it has already started. Rick has already pushed him off the roof and he's falling fast. Something tells him there won't be anyone to pick him up when he reaches the ground. 

Not tonight though. Lying on that old couch while his head spins and his eyes are locked onto Rick's, he doesn't care. For once Stan doesn't care that he cares, for once it's okay, it's okay to be vulnerable and for once the word _love_ isn't that frightening.

At least for the five seconds it lasted.

“F-fuck, Stan––––” Rick mutters still somewhat out of breath, interrupting Stan's personal epiphany as he moves from Stan's lap to the other side of the sofa. 

A comfortable silence settles between them, there's about a thousand different things Stanley would like to say but he doesn't dare utter a word. Rick reaches for the pack of cigarettes on the coffee table, places two between his lips and lights them up. You'd think he'd offer one of those to Stan, he doesn't though, Rick simply throws the pack in his direction as he takes a long drag from the cigarettes. It's just a thing he does, smoke two cigarettes at a time that is, Stan doesn't question it; he has a feeling that if he did he wouldn't like the answer.

“You know,” Rick starts while Stan lights a cigarette for himself. “I've met a lot of shitty humans a-and I mean a _fucking_ lot. Y-you're not one of them.”

Stan looks up, eyes slightly widened as they fix themselves on Rick's figure, who's staring blankly at the white wall. That's possibly the closest he's ever come to saying something nice to him.

“Rick.”

“What?”

_Tell me pretty lies_

_Tell me that you love even though it's fucking fake_

“Nothing.”


End file.
